Best Floppy Poems
Did you ever wake up with parts still asleep
You arms feel all floppy and those aren't your feet
They're attached they are
But it feels bizarre
Don't try walking, bad words you'll excrete
Did you ever wake up with parts still asleep
You arm feels foreign and those aren't your feet
They're attached they are
But it feels bizarre
Don't try walking, bad words you'll excrete
If you ever espy a latitudinally
and longitudinally challenged
older yet shopping savvy woman,
(wedded to yours truly
for almost twenty six years),
who stands approximately
four feet and ten inches
a strong hunch that gal
stacks up as mine missus,
she dons costumed headwear
to avoid station identification,
whenever she steps out
into the public limelight
anywhere outside these four walls
of our one bedroom apartment
here within bucolic Schwenksville,
the town that town forgot,
and the decades could not improve,
where all the women good looking,
the men strong, and the children
wise to the ways of technology.
When this logophile
quite a few pounds lighter
ever since I first became acquainted
with unnamed aforementioned woman,
she adopted predilection to don apparel
allowing, enabling, and providing
modus operandi to present herself incognito.
Ofttimes said spouse of mine
upon returning from
grocery shopping spree
(ever price conscious of various
and sundry commestibles -
with a knick knack paddy whack
give this doggone husband
a plant based NON GMO bone),
she can rattle off the prices
of targeted items on her mental rolodex
how much food cost at:
ALDI, GIANT, LIDL, WEGMANS...
While scurrying to and fro
hither and yon,
a stranger might unexpectedly
pay a compliment to iterated getup,
which bobbin noggin makes her
easy to identify, when yours truly
tags along, (but despite
being considerably taller
by almost twelve inches),
these spindleshanks of one
sentient, ship shaped,
shanghaied, salubrious,
slithering, snakish, stuttering,
sluggish, smashface scarred,
sober, solitary, sangfroid
skidamarink singing, Shamokin
speaking scrivener, scuzzy,
spunky, starved, submissively
suicidal, sunburned, senseless
salaried shuffling senescent
snoutish soundcloud shutterflying
snapchatting schnorrer
find impossible mission
to keep pace with the wife.
left behind on beach
filled with sand and seashells
the days treasure trove
Frolicking friendly fricken floppy fish
Splashed with contentment in his glass bowl dish
It’s time to make a wish, make a wish, make a wish
Said faerie godmother of this cute little fish
I have more than enough, the fricken floppy fish said.
I am happy with my home, this coral reef is my bed
You must make a wish, the faerie godmother insisted.
Ignoring excuses and feelings that showed he resisted.
I am totally happy, he said, I have this, that and the other
Surely you can think of something said his nasty stepmother
If you could turn her into a statue, it would be nice.
With a wave of a wand, the godmother did, without thinking twice.
And so, his almost perfect life was even better now.
He swims all day in peace, and sometimes takes a bow.
His father is happier these days too.
His wife had been kind of a nasty old shrew.